


Greyscale

by wingedthing



Category: Warcraft, World of Warcraft
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-21 18:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingedthing/pseuds/wingedthing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tale of two princes--Anduin Wrynn of Stormwind and Wrathion of the Black Dragonflight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Greyscale

"So. You are the prince of the Alliance."

Anduin Wrynn was surprised to see his addresser smiling, though the smile held nothing reassuring in it. It was a hungry smile, one he'd come to recognize on the faces of Black Iron Dwarves during his captivity in Ironforge. Outwardly, the smile seemed friendly, but it didn't reach his addresser's red eyes, and the human prince could almost see the workings of the mind opposite his and hear the silent question: how can I use you to my advantage?

It was unnerving.

Still, Anduin met the smile with one of his own, one that did reach his eyes. Diplomacy wasn't for the easily unnerved, after all. "Anduin," he confirmed softly. "And you are Wrathion, the Black Prince."

This amused Wrathion, who chuckled and leaned back in his chair. "And so here we are," he remarked. "The Black Prince and-- well, I suppose you could almost be called the White Prince for how pale you are. Pasty, almost."

Anduin raised an eyebrow, but Wrathion said nothing further, still smiling that unnerving grin of his. "If you've nothing further, I've a long journey ahead of me," Anduin said, rising from his chair. Behind Wrathion, the prince's guards (whom Anduin had learned were called "Left" and "Right"--the Black Prince was nothing if not excellent with names) put their hands to their weapons, but Wrathion waved them off.

"Sit," he requested, and when Anduin had done so, he leaned forward. The human prince caught the faint scent of spices. "You and I want the same thing, White Prince," Wrathion began, the grin mostly gone from his face, though the corner of his lips still twitched. "We both want this war over, and I believe you know exactly why."

"This world can't afford to have us all fighting against each other," Anduin supplied, and Wrathion nodded. "There are bigger threats. The Burning Legion is more of a threat to this world than the Horde ever has been or ever will be."

"Exactly!" Wrathion's grin returned, though this time, it almost reached his eyes. "Exactly, O Prince." His grin widened mockingly as he addressed Anduin. "This world is on a collision course with horrors it's never even seen, but instead of regrouping and pulling themselves together after nearly losing everything, the mortal races squabble like children amongst themselves. Hellscream and--forgive me, O Prince--your father see little but the immediate future. They don't plan for what hells may be unleashed on this world while they're busy arguing over whose prick's the larger." Wrathion paused and frowned. "That is the phrase, is it not?"

His coarseness took Anduin off guard, and the human prince felt his cheeks coloring, though he held Wrathion's gaze. "I've heard it called that, yes."

"Ha!" Wrathion's smug exterior broke a moment as he threw a triumphant grin back at Left, who remained stoic as ever. "So with that in mind, O Prince," his gaze returned to Anduin, lifting into its earlier smarmy form, "you can see we're in accord."

"No," Anduin interrupted, holding up his hands, and Wrathion frowned. "The last time I listened to the advice of one of your kind--albeit unknowingly--my kingdom suffered greatly for it. We _still_ haven't recovered completely from what your sister caused. You'll forgive me if I don't rush to join your side of things, whatever side that may be." He shook his head and stood. "Whatever machinations you're working right now, I want no part of them. My loyalty is to Stormwind and the Alliance, not to you."

Wrathion leapt onto the table with a swiftness that stunned Anduin, enough that he didn't jerk back when the Black Prince darted a hand forward and caught him by the chin, pulling him closer. Anduin staggered and inhaled sharply as the claw of Wrathion's thumb grazed his cheek, cutting forth a trickle of blood. Their proximity made the dragon's grin all the more unnerving, but Anduin forced a flat expression, hands clasped behind his back in an almost military pose. He met Wrathion's eyes and refused to look away, forcing back his own discomfort.

They remained that way for several minutes, Anduin's nose twitching at the overwhelming scent of spices and smoke that clung to Wrathion's skin, and Wrathion's head tilting this way and that as he inspected the prince. The dragon finally broke their gaze, eyes trailing briefly to Anduin's lips before he pushed the prince away, claws opening another cut on Anduin's chin.

"We'll see where your loyalties lie, O Prince," he answered, though he no longer watched Anduin, now intent on the drink he'd upset in his approach. "For now, you may go."

Anduin smirked and gave a mocking bow. "Thank you, then, for the conversation." He turned and walked away, only relaxing once he'd returned to his room and locked the door behind him. Before his hand even left the doorknob, he realized he was shivering. Something like lead had settled in the pit of his stomach, and he sank to the bed, running his hands through his hair.

Anduin Wrynn had been kidnapped more times than anyone he could imagine. He'd faced down Twilight cultists, the Horde, and all manner of evil. He thought himself brave, but something about Wrathion unsettled him in a strange way that had him on the alert every time that spice-and-smoke scent permeated the air. 


	2. The Watch

Of humans, Wrathion knew three things.

First, they were incredibly fragile. Mortals. They could waste away and die so easily. Flesh wounds could turn to gangrene and eat away at them. Without armor and magic, their skin was so delicate, easy to tear and pierce.

Second, they were easily manipulated. Even the strongest among them were dominated by fear, and fear was easily exploitable. His father had done it. His sister had done it. He knew that he could do it.

And third, despite their fragility, despite the ease with which they could be manipulated, humans had an incredible spirit. It was indomitable. It was the reason they survived all the hell thrown at them by Azeroth, its monsters, and the monsters from beyond the world. To call the human spirit admirable would be a gross understatement; even for immortals, it was well-nigh enviable.

Wrathion knew of the human spirit. He'd seen it in action, of course. Humans, despite their short lifespans, were the heart of the Alliance. Their airships were responsible for ending the life of his "father," Deathwing. Their history was filled with tales of failure and betrayal, but they owned up to these tales, accepted them, and tried to rectify the damage they wrought. They were a passionate, resilient folk, and he couldn't help but admire them for it.

This was, he told himself, the primary reason the human prince had affected him so. Never mind that Anduin was certainly growing to be as conventionally handsome as a prince should be, and never mind that peculiar scent of his (so like and yet so unlike the priests and paladins Wrathion had met in his time--more luxurious, he thought. Light, but nobility as well). In Anduin's eyes, Wrathion had seen the summation of the human experience, that stubborn spirit that prevented the prince from looking away, even as his muscles tensed under Wrathion's grip and he so clearly wanted to be anywhere but there.

The Black Prince considered these things and eventually leaned back in his chair, looking to his closest human guard. He called her Right, though this likely wasn't her real name. She gladly took to it, however, so strong was her loyalty, and that was why she (and Left, on his left) was his closest guard. "Right," he said, and she glanced at him impassively. "I want to keep an eye on the human prince."

"You and everybody else, my lord," Right answered with a sly grin. "Prince Anduin may be the richest treasure Pandaria offers--everyone seems interested in stealing him and keeping him for themselves."

"Tch." Wrathion rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. "I don't want to _kidnap_ him. Everyone has kidnapped him already, and anyway, that would damage negotiations with the Alliance far beyond repair."

"--would ingratiate you to the Horde, though," Left remarked, and Right nodded, begrudgingly. Wrathion sighed.

"At too high a cost," he maintained. "It's a delicate game we're playing, trying to get these mortal idiots to stop fighting long enough to see there's something greater at stake than--whatever they're fighting over. What _are_ they fighting over, anyway?"

"Land," offered Left at the same time as Right answered, "Honor."

"Idiocy," Wrathion repeated. "The human prince sees this, too, though he's far too noble to call it as such. But he sees it. And he'll be the key to this war, when all is said and done, one way or another. And I want to keep an eye on him."

The Black Prince stood, and his guards straightened, eyes following him as he began to pace. "When he leaves this inn--as he likely will this morning--I want him followed. Our people are the best of the best; they'll be able to keep tabs on him without him noticing. I want reports on where he goes, what he does, who he meets, and what he accomplishes. If he even considers my position for a moment, I want to know about it. Do I make myself clear?"

Left and Right nodded. "Yes, my lord," they said in unison. Wrathion waved them off.

"Then make it so." The two began speaking rapidly into their communicators, and Wrathion returned to his seat. He couldn't--wouldn't--kidnap Anduin; such action would be futile and would only damage his relationship with the Alliance. But if he could keep eyes on the young prince, monitor his comings and goings, perhaps something could be made of their prior encounter.

For now, he couldn't afford to dwell on it. The Alliance and Horde were clashing throughout Pandaria, and time grew short for the Black Prince to make his move. He refused to let Anduin occupy his thoughts for very long, but he quickly found he had no control over how frequently he wondered where the human prince was and what he was doing.


	3. Descent

The air at the top of Kun Lai Summit was impossibly thin, and though Anduin stood tall and proud, not wanting to show weakness to the monks at the Temple of the White Tiger, he found himself short of breath by the time the meeting ended. It was a successful meeting--Xuen, the white tiger, tested the mettle of Horde and Alliance soldiers and looked into their very hearts, seeking to determine their true natures. Against, perhaps, his better judgment and (he knew for a fact) his father's wishes, Anduin found himself defending the Horde: Garrosh's actions in Theramore were indefensible, but the young prince knew (and perhaps it was just foolish optimism) that Hellscream was not the entire Horde.

After all, if the Horde could contain the likes of his friend Baine Bloodhoof, they couldn't all be bad, could they?

Regardless, the meeting was a complete success, as Xuen agreed to open the gates to the Vale of Eternal Blossoms, something that hadn't happened in thousands of years, and he and the other August Celestials were preparing to make their way to the gates even now. The Vale...it was what Anduin had been searching for all this time. Within were the Sacred Pools--sources of healing energy that enticed Anduin with their secrets. If he could only have some time to study them, perhaps people would see that all of this fighting was meaningless. Perhaps he could find a way to bring an end to all of this war, to help Azeroth prepare and protect itself from an even greater darkness...

"You did well in there, young prince."

Anduin nearly jumped out of his skin and turned to see the smiling face of Sunwalker Dezco. The tauren sat carefully against the wall of the Temple, shifting oddly as he did, and after a moment, Anduin realized the chieftain carried with him twin calves, both of whom were miraculously sleeping. "You have great wisdom for one so young," Dezco continued, still grinning. "No wonder Baine speaks so highly of you."

Anduin's first instinct was to ask how Dezco knew Baine, but he realized half a thought later how stupid it would sound to ask one tauren chieftain how he knew another. "I hold Baine in very high regard myself," he answered, inclining his head and smiling fondly. "We are, oddly enough, not so different."

"No, you're not," Dezco agreed. One of the infants in his arms stirred, and he shifted to tend to it. "But be careful, young one. You shine brightly, more brightly than most. Plenty would seek to quench your light before it has a chance to reach its full potential."

Anduin managed a smile at the advice, though it was something he heard on nearly a daily basis. Be careful, you're the prince, you're important, don't let people hurt you, maim you, destroy your hope, kill you. "Thank you, chieftain," he answered and smiled again. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to prepare for our entrance into the Vale." Dezco nodded once again, and Anduin took his leave, wandering the Temple grounds in a half frenzied state of prayer and excitement that not even vague warnings could dampen for long. Nothing, he thought, could dampen it, until something did.

That something was a familiar smell, one that made the prince's heart race and slow at the same time. He smelled it, the spice and smoke, as he rounded a corner to try and find someone to take him down the mountain more quickly than he could climb, and he knew.

"--what are you doing here?" he asked, and Wrathion stepped out of the shadows.

"The Vale of Eternal Blossoms is-- relevant to my interests," the Black Prince answered, smirking and approaching Anduin. "About as relevant as it is to yours, I'd say, though for different reasons."

"What could _you_ possibly want from the Vale?" Anduin sneered, all the while wondering if dragons could sense fear in their mortal forms, if it was even fear he felt. Wrathion clucked his tongue and shook his head.

"Do you really expect me to answer that, O prince?" he chuckled. "How fortunate for us both that your mortal heroes had some nobility to them. It would've been a shame to try and prove your point with scoundrels and thieves, don't you think?"

"What, the sort that _you_ employ?" Anduin asked, and Wrathion only smiled. "What do you want?"

The Black Prince shrugged. He was less than a foot away from Anduin now. "You seem to be having trouble getting down the mountain. Kites not fast enough for you?" He waved a hand derisively in the direction of the great kites, the Pandaren's favored mode of air transport. Anduin felt a rush of impatience in spite of himself.

"They're opening the Gate. Soon. It's a once in a lifetime happening--more than that!--and I want to see it," he answered in what he realized a moment later was a whine. He cleared his throat, and added in a clearer voice, "It took me three days to reach this summit with kites and on foot. I don't want to spend three days getting down."

Now Wrathion's grin was positively feral, and Anduin wasn't sure how to respond to it. The Black Prince stepped even closer, and Anduin made a quiet sound of protest as he was inspected, Wrathion's eyes combing over every inch of him, and this was followed by clawed hands lifting Anduin's arms experimentally. Wrathion's inspection ended, awkwardly enough, with his face millimeters from Anduin's neck, nose twitching as he sniffed. Anduin fought the strangest urges--both to lean into Wrathion's bizarre closeness and to stagger away--and found himself simply standing there in an adopted military pose once again.

Eventually, Wrathion stepped back and nodded. His smile was almost childlike now. "I can take you," he told Anduin.

"What?"

"I can take you," Wrathion repeated. He closed his eyes and, in a puff of smoke, resumed his dragon form. Anduin clapped a hand over his mouth and tried to stifle a laugh; for all his bluster and bombast, Wrathion's dragon form was barely any larger than the whelps Anduin had seen around Redridge. He even did a strangely drunken pirouette in midair as he hissed, "What? Why are you laughing?"

It was fortunate for Anduin that he had years of diplomatic training and was therefore able to control his laughter within minutes. He cleared his throat and tried to speak, but it came out as a laugh again, and he guiltily admitted, "You-- you're a whelp!"

Wrathion blew out an indignant puff of smoke. "And?"

"How are you supposed to carry me? I'm twice your size!"

"Trust me," Wrathion hissed with another puff of smoke. He flapped over to where Anduin stood and started tugging at the prince's clothes with his claws. "Come on. We're wasting time with your cowardice."

"Cowardice! This is madness!" Anduin argued.

"Do you want to see the gates open or not?"

Anduin hesitated and then scowled, wrapping his arms firmly around Wrathion's middle. "I'm going to regret this," he muttered, and sure enough, a moment later, he did. Wrathion's wings beat mightily, and eventually, he managed to lift the two of them off the ground--with an obvious overexertion of effort. "Are you sure about this?" Anduin asked.

"Shut up!" Wrathion answered, this time spurting forth a jet of flame that nearly seared Anduin's hair off, and a moment later, they were hovering towards the edge of a cliff. "Hold tightly, prince!"

Anduin didn't need to be told twice, and even closed his eyes for good measure. No amount of holding tightly and closed eyes could disguise the sudden swooping sensation in his stomach as they dropped, however, and he shuddered when he finally did open his eyes to see how very high up they were and how very high up they were not remaining. "You're going to get us both killed!" he yelled.

"Shut up!" Wrathion answered, his hiss now drawling into something of a whine. "What do you _eat_ , human? You are impossibly heavy!"

"I am not!" Anduin was indignant, mostly to keep himself from screaming in terror. "This is your fault! You're the one who thought it would be a good idea!"

"And who's the idiot who trusted me?!" Wrathion snapped. "Just shut up and close your eyes!"

And for once, Anduin did as he was told, his grip around Wrathion's middle remaining tight. Somehow, despite their idiocy, and after what seemed like an eternity, Anduin felt his feet touching the ground. Anduin opened his eyes and began to step back, but before he could relinquish his panicked hold on Wrathion's middle, the dragon transformed back into his mortal form, his face not even an inch away from Anduin's. Anduin's heart, already pounding from the ordeal, quickened its pace once again, and he dropped his gaze from Wrathion's eyes to his lips, which slowly curved upwards in a triumphant smile. For just a second, Anduin leaned in closer, but when he felt Wrathion's hands move to his sides, even just lightly, the human prince jerked away, staring off towards the Gates of the Vale (which were, amazingly, not as far away as he'd expected).

If the sudden movement fazed Wrathion any, the Black Prince didn't show it. "Ha! I told you!" he crowed in obvious pleasure. Anduin heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Wrathion doing an odd sort of victory dance that gave the impression that he was just as relieved the excursion had ended well as Anduin was. When he saw Anduin watching him, Wrathion threw his hands in the air in an exuberant gesture. "Don't you see now? You can trust me!"

Anduin found himself hiding a smile. "I am never doing that again," he vowed, and Wrathion laughed.

"Enjoy your Vale, O prince. I will see you again." And with that, Wrathion retreated, almost too quickly for Anduin to see.

Only when he was sure that Wrathion was well out of hearing range did Anduin laugh in his own small victory celebration, pressing his hands against his cheeks to drain away some of the color he convinced himself was just from the terrifyingly long descent. He'd once again conquered his terror--and something impossible--and come out on top. And he had Wrathion to thank for that.

Not, of course, that he'd ever admit it to the Black Prince, but it was good to know.


	4. Shatter

As a black dragon, Wrathion knew a thing or two about the shattering of things. He knew, for instance, that shattering was a catastrophe on some level--a shattered glass could be glued back together, but the cracks would always remain. A shattered world could be rebuilt, but not without scars.

He also knew that people were more forgiving of accidental shatterings. If you dropped a glass, people forgave you. If you threw a glass across the room, people looked at you as if you were insane. If an earthquake shattered the world, people forgave it. If a black dragon shattered the world, people looked at all black dragons with justifiable suspicion and anger.

Of course, it wasn't enough that his parentage was violent, to say the least. It wasn't enough that he'd been unnaturally aged, with all the knowledge of a man who'd seen generations of life on Azeroth but all the experience of a toddler, both innocent and corrupted in the same breath. People didn't trust him. And it wasn't fair.

These thoughts had Wrathion in a sullen mood as the days of November waned into December. The changing of the seasons went practically unnoticed in Pandaria, where the climate had remained temperate since Wrathion's arrival, now gaining on more than two months before. He and his spies traveled the continent, observing and chronicling what they saw, watching as the heroes of the Horde and the Alliance edged closer to all-out war and a shattering of their own.

Few forgave Wrathion for the Shattering his father had committed, but he had to wonder if these mortals would hold themselves to the same standard?

"Hypocrites, the lot of them," he complained to Left and Right one day, after he'd heard the last of the reports and was enjoying another of Pandaria's deliriously tasty mushan steaks. "They'll tear this land apart and then cry and blame everything but themselves. Sometimes--" He stopped himself. Sometimes, he wondered if his father hadn't had a point in his drive to destroy the world. Trying to keep the world from destroying itself seemed hopeless.

Right, who had already finished her dinner and resumed her place behind Wrathion, frowned at the prince. "You know better than that," she reminded him. "You've seen better mortals than the ones clashing all over Pandaria. You know they're worth saving."

"Are they?" Wrathion asked. His appetite had fled with the increasing gloom of his thoughts. "Sometimes, I wonder. They squabble like mewling brats over resources they could share, and in their fighting, they destroy those resources. And they never learn" He sighed, a plume of unintentional smoke curling up from his nose and mouth. "Uniting them so that they can save this world is hopeless."

"What about the human prince?" Left asked. She wore a begrudging expression, her old prejudices showing through her usually impassive mask. "Even I must admit that his efforts to end this war and bring peace to the land are impressive."

Wrathion's expression softened, the last wisps of smoke from his nose and mouth dissipating in thin air. "Yes. There is Anduin," he agreed. Since their last meeting, he'd kept an even closer watch on the human prince. Anduin's efforts to maintain peace throughout Pandaria were commendable, to say the least, and Wrathion now felt certain that the prince was the key to ensuring an end to the war and a refocusing of mortals' priorities on threats greater than they were.

And, that aside, Wrathion far too often found his thoughts returning to the memory of Anduin's arms around his waist, his scent almost dizzyingly strong. What would his lips taste like, Wrathion wondered, and immediately dismissed the thought, saying aloud, "If any hope remains for the Alliance and the Horde, it is in--"

Before he could finish his sentence, someone knocked on the door. "I'm through hearing reports for the night!" Wrathion called out to the hallway. "Bother someone else!"

"My lord, it's urgent!" said the voice on the other side, muffled by the great wooden door. Wrathion let out another sigh--and more smoke with it--and waved Left to the door, which she opened to reveal a mustachioed Gnome in black leather, an eye patch covering his right eye.

"My lord," the Gnome said, bowing low. "The Horde and Alliance fleets near the southern coast of the Krasarang Wilds. King Varian and Warchief Hellscream themselves will make landfall before dawn."

Wrathion stood, almost too quickly, and to the alarm of both Right and Left. "You're certain?" he asked the Gnome, who nodded once. Wrathion smiled. "Excellent. Left, Right... we're going on a trip."

Having anticipated this moment for quite some time, Wrathion already had transport waiting for them outside, in the form of a handsome kite, a wyvern for Right and a gryphon for Left (as he appreciated the irony). "We'll speak with Varian to start," he said, balancing carefully on his kite. "Humans do tend towards rational thought more than orcs do, present company excluded." He gave Left a nod, and she huffed indignantly but nodded back. At Wrathion's signal, the three of them took off, letting the wind currents take them down the mountain and across the verdant Valley of the Four Winds.

Wrathion had every intention of continuing until he'd reached the beach and the human king. He needed someone who would listen to reason. He needed to pull a particular string and tug the opposing factions together, even if only for a short time while they stood united against annihilation, and Varian seemed the safest bet in that regard. In other circumstances, with less at stake, Wrathion would gladly have gone after Garrosh, just for the challenge of it, but he didn't have time to--

A scent on the wind halted his thoughts in place and caused him to call over the wind, "Change in plans!" before unstrapping himself from the kite and taking his dragon form halfway to the ground and not far from Anduin Wrynn's horse.

It didn't surprise Wrathion in the least to see the prince traveling alone; after all, hadn't Anduin spent his entire time in Pandaria thus far refusing the accompaniment of Alliance forces? His solitude wasn't surprising, but it did make Wrathion smile, and the black prince had every intention of being stealthy and surprising, when Anduin gave a sharp tug to his horse's reins. He sniffed the air around him and asked, "Are you following me again?" Though the prince's expression was impassive, his voice held a note of a smile.

Wrathion forced himself not to deflate in disappointment, instead simply shifting into his mortal form and bowing to Anduin, a grin on his face. "Implying that I ever followed you to begin with, O Prince," he said, and Anduin wheeled his horse around to face Wrathion.

"I know you've been having me followed," he pointed out, patting his horse's neck before dismounting and approaching Wrathion with his hands folded behind his back. "I've had people following me since I could first walk. I know when I'm being watched."

Wrathion scoffed and chuckled, mimicking the human prince's posture. "I watch everything on this continent," he explained. "Especially those things that may further my interests. But no, I was not following you, though our destinations were likely the same."

"So you've heard, too, that the Alliance fleet is landing." Anduin frowned and dropped his gaze, his arms moving to fold across his chest. "I have to warn my father. When he learns what the Horde has done here, his wrath will tear this place apart. He must know of the Sha. We can't destroy this land with our hatred."

The string was pulled. "Then we're in agreement again." Despite Anduin's worry, Wrathion's smile broadened, almost ferally. "I must say, for someone who claims to stand so staunchly against everything I'm working for, you do fit so nicely into my plans."

Anduin's frown turned into a scowl. "Whatever your plans are, I still want no part of them," he sneered, and Wrathion laughed.

"You're all part of my plans, whether you want to be or not," he said, and Anduin rolled his eyes, starting back towards his horse. A sudden impulse struck Wrathion, however, and he darted out a hand to wrap around the human prince's wrist, eliciting a strangled sound of protest from Anduin.

"I need to go," he said, but Wrathion's grip around his wrist tightened.

"If I can have nothing else, O Prince, promise me this one thing: promise me that you'll be careful," Wrathion said and was surprised at how desperate his voice sounded, adding, "I can't have you interfering with my work, after all," to hide the sudden rawness.

Anduin's expression softened almost unnoticeably. "I'm always careful," he said, no longer trying to tug his arm free of Wrathion's grasp. "Whether it fits into your plans or not."

Wrathion chuckled and moved infinitesimally closer. "That's a promise, then?"

Anduin nodded, and when he spoke again, his voice cracked. "It's a promise."

No witty response came to Wrathion's tongue, nor any thought to his mind beyond his earlier wondering at the taste of Anduin's lips. With that thought, he pulled Anduin sharply to him and pressed his lips against the human prince's. Anduin inhaled in a hiss, the muscles in his arm going tense beneath Wrathion's fingers. He didn't pull away, however, and after a moment, Wrathion felt the pressure of Anduin's lips increase and part slightly against his as the prince returned the kiss before pulling away and staggering back towards his horse. Wrathion brushed a thumb over his lower lip and watched Anduin, who turned to look at Wrathion again before riding away. "It's a promise," he repeated.

"Then I shall see you again, O Prince," Wrathion said and bowed low, remaining that way until Anduin had disappeared into the distance and Left and Right had landed on Wrathion's either side.

"Change of plans again," he said, and his bodyguards groaned. "Send my best eyes to the Alliance and Horde base camps, and have them direct the strongest and wisest of heroes back to me."

"You're not going to speak with the king himself, my lord?" Left asked, and Wrathion shook his head.

"There's no need," he answered, smiling at her. "Not when the human prince will speak for me."


	5. Blood

Everything was happening so quickly.

From the moment the Horde and Alliance fleets had reached Pandaria, chaos had reigned. Theoretically, both sides were to blame for this situation, but Anduin Wrynn felt more of the blame lay with the Horde's warchief, Garrosh Hellscream. Hellscream was more than reckless, as Anduin had long told himself--his actions of late had become unforgiveable, and he planned far worse, and that was why Anduin traveled to the Tavern in the Mists.

He didn't know what else to do. His father and everyone else--Jaina, the heroes and generals of the Alliance, everyone!--all treated him like a child, and in their eyes, he supposed he was. Not yet eighteen, not yet having seen real combat, not even raised by his own father. Nobody could see that he understood things, probably better than most of them, and that there was no time to argue over who was adult enough and who wasn't.

He was right. He knew he was right. And he knew Wrathion would see things that way, too.

The Harmonic Mallet, wrapped tightly in protective cloth, weighed heavily on his back as his gryphon wheeled tightly on an updraft, the mist of the Veiled Stair closing in around them. Anduin allowed himself a brief respite from his worries, remembering the last time he'd seen Wrathion, the taste of the dragon prince's lips and the way his claws had dug into Anduin's wrists until they had broken apart and gone their separate ways. It was a memory that had kept him sane and calm in the last several days, as the Harmonic Mallet was constructed, and one he revisited more frequently than he cared to admit, even to himself; yet it was also this memory that gave Anduin silent assurance that Wrathion would not let him fight this battle alone.

Anduin's gryphon landed on the ground before the Tavern in the Mists, skidding against the dirt there, and Anduin didn't even bother to explain himself to the kite keepers, taking the steps to the tavern two at a time and bursting, breathless, through the door.

Wrathion sat, as Anduin remembered he had, with his guards flanking him on either side, looking stony and impassive. A woman dressed in deep blue leathers was murmuring something to Wrathion and turned, eyes widening to see the prince, whom she regarded with a bow and a murmured, "Your majesty." Though Wrathion had been watching the woman through narrowed eyes and with a flat expression, he smiled broadly when he saw Anduin, his dagger-like teeth glinting in the lantern light.

"Your majesty," Wrathion repeated. "Right, please escort the young prince to my chamber and fetch him something to drink. I shall speak with him in a moment."

Wrathion's human guard, a woman with brown hair and dressed in fitted leathers, nodded at Wrathion and gestured ahead of Anduin, who didn't follow her.

"I'm afraid it cannot wait," he said. "I need your help."

Wrathion let out an exasperated sigh and stood. "As you wish, then." He nodded at his bodyguards and the woman to whom he had been speaking before taking the stairs to the tavern's upper level and beckoning for Anduin to follow. "Close the door," he said once they'd reached the office above the kitchen, and Anduin did so, and was surprised to find himself pressed back against that door seconds later, Wrathion smiling devilishly at him.

"I knew you'd be back," the dragon prince said and covered Anduin's mouth with his own. Anduin's heart jerked oddly in his chest, and something shivered around his middle, just as it had the first time Wrathion had kissed him. The shivering turned into a dizzying swoop as he felt sharp teeth dig into his lower lip and gave a muffled cry, trying to pull away. Wrathion allowed this, though held the human prince's face close.

"What was that?" Anduin asked, intending to sound enraged, but realizing after he spoke that he sounded more stunned than anything. Wrathion chuckled and leaned forward again, kissing Anduin's lower lip, his tongue darting out to steal away the blood that trickled from the cut he'd left there.

"A kiss, nothing more," the dragon prince answered. "What would you ask of me, O Prince? Has this to do with the Horde's warchief and his beloved Divine Bell?"

Anduin had lifted a hand to heal the bite on his lower lip, but froze when Wrathion spoke. "You know about that?"

Wrathion rolled his eyes, still holding Anduin firmly against the door. "I know about everything that happens on this continent. It's a bad business, that bell. I suppose you want my help in stopping him."

Anduin shifted in Wrathion's grasp to reach for the Harmonic Mallet, still slung across his back. "This mallet--" he began. "It's the only thing that can stop the Divine Bell from wreaking the havoc Garrosh has planned. I intend to use it and destroy the bell before he can--"

"You?" Wrathion interrupted. The smirk was gone from his face, replaced with naked shock. "Not even you're reckless enough to go up against the strongest the Horde has to offer by yourself. You'll be killed!"

"That's why I want your help," Anduin said. "I need to get to the Divine Bell. I need a distraction. If I have that, I can get by and destroy the bell before Garrosh uses it to hurt anyone. Please-- please, Wrathion."

The dragon prince flinched. It was the first time Anduin had spoken his name, and they both realized it. Still, his expression didn't soften towards the human prince, and after a moment, he stepped away, allowing Anduin to stagger forwards from the door and catch his breath. "I cannot," Wrathion answered.

It was not the answer Anduin had expected. "But-- surely you realize that if Garrosh uses the Divine Bell, it means the destruction of the Alliance! It means genocide!" he protested.

"It means an end to the war," Wrathion said coolly, not looking at Anduin. "It means the people of this world will stop fighting against each other and learn to see the bigger picture."

"But at that cost?" Anduin cried. "You won't have an army to fight the greater dangers you're so worried about! You'll have creatures driven mad with rage, incapable of telling friend from foe, tearing each other apart! Wrathion, please!"

"No, O Prince!" Wrathion turned back around, eyes searing red, and Anduin noticed that the scent of smoke was far stronger in the air than it had been before. "You are a foolish child on a foolish child's errand. I won't help you throw yourself off a cliff. I won't help you drive a dagger into your heart. And I will not help you to stand alone against the might of the Horde in the ghost of a hope that you might stem the tide of war with your own faith!"

The silence following Wrathion's words was heavy. A child. A foolish child. Anduin let out a disbelieving laugh, that he'd come this far only to hear those words again. "If that is your understanding, then so be it," he finally said. He couldn't quite meet Wrathion's eyes, and bowed low and mockingly. "Your majesty."

He imagined Wrathion returning the gesture, the scent of smoke still thick in the air. "Your majesty," the dragon answered with a growl.

Anduin turned and was free of the tavern in minutes. He didn't look back, clenching his teeth and balling his fists to keep hot tears from escaping. How dare that _whelp_ call him a child! How could he not understand the urgency of the situation? How could he think that this sort of ending to a war was anything but entirely destructive? It was madness!

The farther he flew, however, the more the anger abated into an ache and a determination. He was alone in this, he knew, but if he had to be alone, if he had to lose everything and everyone, even his own life, it would be worth the sacrifice for the lives he'd save. By the time his gryphon landed in Kun-Lai, a brief hike away from where Garrosh was keeping the Divine Bell, his eyes were dry and his jaw set, though he still had not healed Wrathion's bite and wouldn't get the chance to do so before his confrontation with the warchief.


	6. Disconnected

As a black dragon, Wrathion knew more than perhaps anyone else on Azeroth the dangers of forming attachments.

 

_"We have a report from the Alliance," Right says in a low voice as the Black Prince glares at another of his minions over a cup of Pandaren tea. "Anduin did not face the Warchief alone; he was accompanied by a champion of the Alliance, but according to the report, he's within a hairsbreadth of death's doorstep."_

His mother had been the great drake Nyxondra, though not by choice. Rheastrasza of the Red Dragonflight had forced Nyxondra to lay eggs for her experiments before stealing those eggs from her, not realizing that the whelps within the eggs heard every word of her machinations. Her machinations, the Gnome's machinations, the heroes of the Alliance and Horde's machinations. One egg was purified of the Old Gods' curse, and the whelp within that egg heard it all, heard how Nyxondra wanted back the eggs she'd been forced to lay, heard how instead her captors ordered her death. He heard it all.

 

_Wrathion sits up straight in his chair and forces his expression to remain aloof. "Send our condolences to the King of the Alliance," he says. Right nods curtly and spirits away to do just that, but Left still stands behind him._

_"And what of the prince himself, my lord?" she asks._

He heard Rheastrasza's sacrifice to protect him from his alleged father, who would have destroyed him and any other purified eggs. Had the story ended with Rheastrasza, perhaps the whelp would not carry such enmity for the Red Dragonflight. Had his last understanding of him been that they would die so that he could live, perhaps he would have held them in higher regard.

But this was not the case.

 

_What of the prince himself? He'd gone on a fool's errand, and Wrathion had told him as much when the prince had come to him for help. Wrathion had refused Anduin's request for aid for oh so many reasons. The logical ones came first--he couldn't afford to favor the Alliance over the Horde, not when he needed one side to emerge from this conflict as decidedly victorious. He didn't want to show favor, not yet, and he certainly couldn't be seen as caring for the prince as more than the pawn he was. Not only that, but Wrathion knows that he is still limited in terms of his power. He is powerful, oh yes, but he has the powers of a whelp, not a full grown dragon. Not yet._

_But his refusal was more than this. He had caught a glimpse, he thought, of the future, and he hated what he saw. He thought that by refusing Anduin's request, he would stop the prince, but the opposite was true. Anduin's resolve had only strengthened, and they had parted angrily._

_What of the prince himself? Wrathion straightens his shoulders again. "Will he live?" he asks._

Would he live?

For a time, he didn't know. He heard the Red Dragons bringing him from place to place to keep him away from the corrupting influence of his own flight and his father's minions. At first, he thought they merely wanted his protection, and he was grateful, but as time progressed, he heard things he didn't understand. He remembered the pain of the experiment that had purified him and heard discussion of further experiments, further purifications, on him and on others.

He heard further plans, of being held by the Red Dragonflight indefinitely. "We'll have to watch him closely as he grows," they said. In that moment, he saw the future they imagined for him, not as a new hope for his flight but as a prisoner, something they could control and destroy if he stepped out of line. This was no future he wanted. He had a greater destiny than simply being the science project of his distant kin.

And so he took action.

 

_"No one knows." The answer comes from an unexpected source, a Gnome rogue who is a favorite of Wrathion's and has stolen into the Black Prince's inner sanctum, but Wrathion permits it this time. "The prince managed to stop the Divine Bell from being used to mass effect, but in his anger, the Warchief destroyed the bell and ensured that it crushed the prince underneath its weight."_

_In that moment, Wrathion sees Anduin's past as clearly as he saw his own future once. He sees Anduin standing between Garrosh Hellscream and the bell, and the prince looks so deceptively small and frail. He hears raised voices, the warchief's rage overwhelming him. He hears the last notes of the bell still reverberating in the air, mingling with the eerie shriek of the warchief's great axe as Garrosh swings for Anduin, sees the prince call the Light to protect himself, but it isn't enough. The axe wasn't aiming for him after all. It shatters the stone bell, and Anduin has only a moment to recognize what's happened before the weight of stones crushes him. The warchief laughs in triumph, gloats, leaves the prince's broken body behind. The last notes of the bell die in the wind that blows Anduin's fair hair against his forehead, and all is silent._

_"My lord?" Left asks, but Wrathion barely hears her._

He couldn't see a future as a prisoner, with his own destiny out of his control. For anyone else, this would have been a problem, especially being as yet unhatched, but whatever that Gnome had done to him had changed him. He was aware far younger than he should have been, and he quickly found that he could pull the strings of willing mortals even before the first cracks began to appear in his shell.

And this he did as soon as he knew how. Only one place had the stealth and secrecy to steal him away from the Red Dragonflight, and to those thieves, sneaks, and assassins he turned--the mortals of Ravenholdt.

It was with the mortals of Ravenholdt that he had hatched. It was with the mortals of Ravenholdt that he had grown--more rapidly than they expected. If he felt loyalty to any group above others, it was to these mortals who had sworn unconditional fealty to him. From their ranks he had chosen his elite guard, and to their ranks he turned when he needed eyes and ears around Azeroth. The mortals of Ravenholdt got their hands dirty when he was still too young and new to do so himself. They slaughtered the remaining Black Dragons and protected him from the Reds, who would still hold him prisoner indefinitely. They, above any others in Azeroth, fell most closely into the definition of family for Wrathion.

But with all of that understood, Wrathion felt no true attachment to the mortals of Ravenholdt. He cared for them in an aloof way, but his only attachment and devotion, by necessity, were to Azeroth herself. He sensed what few others did--that the world would soon be in danger from a greater threat than it had faced in many years, and something in him that he didn't understand called him to protect the world from that threat. It was the same calling his father had followed millennia before, when he had been Neltharion the Earth-Warder.

He was the last of the black dragons. He was charged with protecting Azeroth. And he could not afford attachments to any mortals who would get in the way.

 

_"My lord?" Left repeats, and Wrathion blinks. She stares at him, but the others look away as if he's done something embarrassing, and after a moment, he realizes that there is something cold and wet on his cheek, something that he brushes away with his middle and index finger. He clears his throat and adjusts his turban, glad that it conceals half of his face if he wears it in just the right way._

_"If the young prince recovers," he finally says, "send word to him that he is a fool." He hesitates and adds, "And send word that he is still as welcome in my presence as he was before."_

_It is the closest he will come to apologizing; to do more would suggest an attachment that Wrathion cannot afford._


	7. Ascent

Travel has become difficult for Anduin Wrynn.

Not that travel was ever particularly easy--the number of times he's been kidnapped in Pandaria alone has to be some sort of record--but he tires so quickly now, and his leg causes him pain. Every day, he is able to go a bit farther before he needs to rest, but progress is still slow, especially this final leg: the climb up the Path of a Hundred Steps.

A retinue of half a dozen Stormwind guards and unnumbered SI:7 agents accompanies him--his compromise with his father. Varian Wrynn had initially insisted that Anduin remain in Lion's Landing, where he had been convalescing, until a ship could be requisitioned to bring him back to Stormwind. Even as Anduin demonstrated what he believed to be a faster than usual recovery (though most of that was him pushing himself too far and spending most of his days working his injuries with the Light), Varian remained insistent that his son got into too much trouble in Pandaria and that he'd be much safer in Stormwind.

One afternoon, pushed to an uncharacteristic breaking point by the pain in his leg and his exhaustion, Anduin had muttered acidly about assassins doing their work even in the safety of the city itself. Varian was also at his breaking point, and the two had a heated argument that otherwise would have ended with Anduin making as dignified an exit as he could, had he been better able to walk.

As it was, however, the prince of the Alliance only managed to stagger to the room's entrance, leaning heavily on his cane, before pain and exhaustion caused him to lean against the doorpost and exhale heavily, his shoulders drooping. That moment had been enough for Varian, too, and the two sat back down and came to a compromise. Since the Alliance navy was thoroughly engaged with the Horde, it would be several weeks at least until a ship could be requisitioned to bring Anduin back to Stormwind anyway, and both king and prince balked at the idea of portals. Until that time, Varian agreed that Anduin could travel about Pandaria as he pleased--after all, the land seemed ideally suited for speeding up healing processes--at least within reason, and if accompanied by enough guards to protect the prince from whatever the Horde or the rest of Pandaria might bring.

Anduin, already tired of being holed up in Lion's Landing after the several months he'd been there, agreed readily, and once he'd proved that he could cross the courtyard of the keep twice without having to stop, he bid Varian farewell and set out for the Tavern in the Mists.

After all, he had an apology to make.

 

_In the moments leading up to Garrosh Hellscream's attack, Anduin had been singleminded in his focus: nothing mattered but destroying the Divine Bell. He knew his history well and knew that Garrosh was in danger of repeating the sins of his father, condemning the Horde to possession and servitude by a force as wicked if not more so than the Burning Legion. Anduin had watched from the shadows as Garrosh's elite troops were possessed by the Sha but one by one fell to corruption, leaving only the warchief and his trusted blademaster Ishi still standing._

_And that was when Anduin had taken his chance. That was when he had acted, rashly, foolishly._

 

The prince and his retinue stop to rest at a landing halfway up the path, Anduin stretching out his leg before him to massage Light into his aching bones. He feels older lately than the veterans of the first and second wars who accompany him, and they look at him with sympathy, knowing the pain of old wounds. The captain, a man named Sterns, sits down beside Anduin and rests a hand on his shoulder.

"If the pain is too great, your highness, we can rest here tonight," he offers, but Anduin shakes his head before he's even finished speaking.

"Not when we're this close. Besides, I'm sure you and the others would rather spend the night in a real inn with real beds instead of in tents again," he answers with a tired smile. Sterns returns the smile and stands.

"We'll be ready to leave as soon as you are," he says. "And if you need assistance as we continue, don't be too proud to ask."

Anduin's smile grows wry. "I won't," he says.

 

_He couldn't be too proud to ask for assistance from anyone, not with so much on the line, not with Garrosh having apparently lost his mind. Even as he struck the Divine Bell and destroyed it, Garrosh's champions lying broken around him, he thought of Wrathion's words to him, calling him a foolish child. The irony of someone who was no more than two years old saying this was not lost on Anduin, but in that moment, he felt triumphant--he'd proved Wrathion, his father, even Jaina wrong. He had destroyed the Divine Bell and stopped Garrosh's plans in their tracks, even stopping the warchief himself for a beat. No one would be hurt by the Bell again; of this, Anduin was certain._

_But in an instant, it all went wrong. He had tried to shield himself from Garrosh's attack, but the warchief had missed Anduin completely, striking at the Bell itself and shattering it. Anduin barely had a moment to react before the heavy stone pieces fell forward, causing pain like he'd never before known and then absolute silence._

_Foolish child. A foolish child's errand. Somewhere in his unconscious mind, he heard the admonitions of Jaina, his father... Wrathion. They had all been right. He had accomplished his goal, but at the cost of his own life, and while it seemed an obvious sacrifice to make, in the darkness, Anduin felt oppressed by his own selfishness. Why did he have to be the one to stop Garrosh? What other heroes could have gone instead? Would he really leave his father alone, leave Jaina to her grief and pain, leave Wrathion..._

 

"I'm ready to travel again," Anduin says, standing slowly with the aid of his cane. The cane is a fine specimen, carved with the head of a lion, gilded and embellished with sapphires. It's sturdy as well, a fact for which Anduin feels no shortage of gratitude on this passage.

As the prince stands, he sees the telltale smoke of rogues vanishing into the shadows, and Sterns calls his guard to attention, offering the prince a slight wink. "You heard the prince, soldiers. Let's move out!"

Though Anduin has never been far removed from Stormwind guards, he's always surprised and impressed at their efficiency. Sterns and the rest are ready to continue the climb in mere minutes, and after taking a deep breath and steeling himself, Anduin journeys on.

 

_For a time, Anduin felt he was dying, and it was a strange feeling. The warm embrace of the Light seemed just out of reach, leaving him instead wrapped in the coldness of the Great Dark. He thought he could see the whispering violet of the Twisting Nether as well, and felt the turning of Azeroth beneath him, the sun's radiance, the gentleness of the White Lady and Blue Child. He heard songs and laughter, encouragement and love from a voice long forgotten. He ached to push forward into the Light, into everything, but something pulled him back into pain and silence._

_The first sign he had of waking up was the heavy pressure of a gnarled and ancient hand on his forehead. Voices followed, sometimes talking too fast and sometimes talking too slow, never at the right speed for Anduin to understand them until with what felt like a monumental effort, he forced his eyes open and immediately scrunched them closed again, a physical protest to the brightness of his room._

_His father's voice was the first he recognized. "Anduin...?" Varian said, and Anduin could hear the scraping of wooden chair legs against a stone floor. He felt the hand leave his forehead, replaced with a more desperate touch at his cheek. He forced his eyes open to see his father, close enough to block out the sun and the candles and everything that made waking up painful, lips slowly turning upwards in a watery smile._

_To his surprise, Anduin found his throat tightening as well, and it took a few false starts before he managed to say, "Father."_

_The weeks that followed were filled with apologies--to his father, to Jaina, to everyone who would listen. Most, especially his father and Jaina, told Anduin that he'd done the right thing and that they were just glad he was alive. Most called him a hero and apologized to him for calling him a foolish child._

_Most. He still had one apology left to give._

Ninety-nine.

One hundred.

In better shape, Anduin would have triumphantly counted the last steps aloud, but he's exhausted and in so much pain that he's not sure how he'll make it from the landing to the inn itself, never mind inside. His retinue is in much better shape; many of them have never been to the path's end before and are looking around in wonder while Anduin catches his breath.

Sterns holds back, however, and returns his hand to Anduin's shoulder. "You've made it this far, your highness. Just a few steps farther."

Anduin gulps in the thin mountain air and nods at Sterns, straightening and leaning on his cane. Just a few steps farther. No more than twenty, he guesses, and begins to walk.

Each step is utter agony. After this, after he's reached his goal, he will sit and he will stretch out in one of those marvelous Pandaren beds with a dozen pillows elevating his leg and a cup of tea in his hand. He may even sleep, but he can't do so just yet.

The last steps through the tavern's door are the worst, and Anduin nearly collapses once he is within. Innkeeper Jago recognizes him and darts forward with surprising speed to loop the prince's arm across his shoulders, and Anduin can't find the words to express his relief.

"I am glad to see you well again, your highness," Jago says. He's so tall that Anduin's feet barely graze the ground, and while he would find this annoying at any other time, in this moment he's nearly weeping with relief. "What brings you back here?"

"I have an apology to make." Anduin's eyes dart to the back room from which the scent of spice and smoke drifts faintly out to the entryway. Jago follows Anduin's gaze and offers him a toothy smile.

"You received the Black Prince's message, then?" he asks. The two begin to make their way across the inn towards Wrathion's chamber, followed by a pair of guards and a pair of rogues. Anduin nods once.

"That I am a fool, but that I am still welcome in the Black Prince's presence," he recites. Jago's grin widens.

"We all feared for your life, your highness. Even the Black Prince, even if he does not say as much." Jago stops just outside of Wrathion's chamber and knocks once on the doorjamb.

"I've stopped taking reports today!" Wrathion calls out, and Anduin smiles despite himself, feeling a strange swooping sensation in his stomach at the sound of the Black Prince's voice. "Tell them to come back tomorrow!"

"This is not a report, highness," Jago answers and eases Anduin to the floor, adding in a lower voice, "Can you walk in on your own?"

"I can handle it," Anduin says. Jago smiles and squeezes Anduin's shoulder; he tries to turn and walk away, but Anduin's escorts block his path until Anduin tells them to let the innkeeper pass, hesitates just a beat longer, and pushes through the heavy curtains that divide Wrathion's chambers from the rest of the inn.

As Anduin remembered him, Wrathion is flanked on either side by his personal guards, Left leaning on the back of his chair and Right standing ramrod straight. The Black Prince himself slouches in his chair, staring disinterestedly at a corner of the wall and floor, until Anduin speaks, bending at the waist. "Your majesty."

At this, Wrathion's eyes flick upwards from the wall and his expression comes alive in a brief moment of delight at the sight of Anduin. He crosses the room in two strides, his warm palm coming to rest against Anduin's cheek-- until he sees the guards who have begun to file into his chambers. Anduin can barely register his actions before Wrathion drops his hand, flexing the clawed fingers slowly.

"You return from your fool's errand, O prince," he observes in his usual calm manner.

Anduin inclines his head. "I owe you an apology, for the way I spoke when last we met," he says. "You were right. I acted as a fool."

Wrathion snorts, a wisp of smoke trailing from his nostril as he returns to his seat and gestures to a nearby chair and stool as an invitation to Anduin, who gratefully sinks into the plush seat and elevates his aching leg. "Of course I was right. I'm always right. Will you ever learn?"

Anduin shakes his head, but offers Wrathion a smile. "I doubt it."


	8. Intermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrathion and Anduin take a break from entertaining adventurers for a late night swim and snack.

“I still think it’s ridiculous.”

Wrathion raised an eyebrow at Anduin as the human prince slowly lowered himself into the steaming pool behind the Tavern in the Mists. He’d changed, with a great deal of effort, from his usual princely garb into a pair of swim shorts, all of this at Wrathion’s urging. They’d spoken of doing this earlier, in code so that Anduin’s guards--and Wrathion’s--wouldn’t pick up on their sneaking away in the dead of the night.

Not that they were sneaking far away, or at least not as far away as Anduin would have liked. When Wrathion had first suggested the idea of slipping away to the human prince, Anduin had pounced on it with far too much enthusiasm and added that they should travel to the Vale of Eternal Blossoms or the Jade Forest. Wrathion had snorted.

“You’re exactly as subtle as a giant bell to the face,” he’d said, and ignored Anduin’s offended protest to offer his own counter. “We don’t need to go that far, O Prince. The steaming pool out back will perform miracles for the aches you still suffer, and we’re not even technically breaking any rules.”

Anduin had still looked sore at the bell comment, but he’d begrudgingly agreed, adding as he did, “Sneaking out into your own back yard is ridiculous.”

Now Anduin was trying to gracefully lower himself into the pool without aggravating his injured leg. “I still think it’s ridiculous,” he said, his voice low. “Isn’t half the point of sneaking away to go somewhere you couldn’t otherwise? We could have just waited until sunrise and come down here without all the complications.”

The “complications” of which he spoke mainly involved their trip down from Anduin’s bedroom window, the human prince having wrapped his arms around Wrathion’s waist as they once had and Wrathion doing his best not to show how the cast on Anduin’s leg made landing safely and levelly that much more difficult. Wrathion rolled his eyes. “But would we have been able to bathe alone?” he asked. “Or would we have dealt with the watchful eyes and listening ears of our respective entourages?”

Anduin didn’t respond, either because he had no good response or because the steaming water of the pool had begun to ease the ache in his battered muscles. The human prince confirmed the truth of the latter with a quiet hiss and groan of relief, and Wrathion smirked, pausing in his questions long enough to strip down to his own swim shorts and lower himself into the pool. As he did, he noticed the frown on Anduin’s face.

“What happened to you?” the human prince asked. His eyes were focused on the Black Prince’s torso, and Wrathion sighed in response.

“The story of my origin is an ugly one, O Prince,” he said, brushing his clawed hands lightly over the mottled patches of white skin that traced over his torso. They made an ugly mismatched pattern, as if parts of him had been grafted on from another source. “I remain uncorrupted, but my freedom from the whispers of the Old Gods came at a great price.”

“I know,” Anduin said, and Wrathion looked up at the human prince in surprise. Anduin’s hands had disappeared beneath the water, and Wrathion could see their glow as the prince massaged his aching leg. The human prince looked away almost sheepishly and added, “I mean, I heard rumors. Rheastrasza’s experiments were something of an open secret, but nobody ever seemed to know the specifics. Some adventurers I met suggested that she’d merely tried to purify your egg--” Wrathion snorted, “--and others suggested more... ghastly methods.”

Wrathion sighed and, after a beat, admitted in a low voice, “Even I am not certain of the extent of her machinations.” Some part of him, the part that would rather have spent all of his time relaxing in Anduin’s company--playing board games, taking midnight swims--wanted to say more. Some part of him wanted to admit that he, at times, felt like an abomination, stitched together and given life at the expense of many others. Some part of him wanted to confess to the human prince that, at times, he didn’t even know what he was, that he longed for the comfort and certainty that surely came with Anduin’s station.

But the larger part of him rolled a shoulder and continued. “I understand and appreciate her sacrifice, but I want nothing more to do with her flight or legacy,” he said, as he had many times before.

Anduin watched Wrathion in silence a moment before speaking up with a laugh. “I still can’t believe you ate the Thunder King’s heart,” he said. “But then, I suppose that shouldn’t have surprised me. You’re a dragon, after all.”

Wrathion chuckled, relieved that Anduin wasn’t pressing the point of his origins. “I don’t regret it,” he said. “The things I saw, even that far-too-brief glimpse...” He closed his eyes and sighed, recalling the infinite knowledge he’d held for but a moment when he’d devoured the heart of Lei Shen, the Thunder King. “Besides,” he added, eyes still closed, “the heart is one of the richest meats I’ve ever tasted. Perhaps too stringy for you, with all of the veins that you’d have to chew, but very rich.”

Anduin frowned. “I’ve had liver before, at least,” he offered, in what Wrathion saw as an endearing attempt to create some equity in their experiences. “I suppose a heart can’t be that different.”

“Tougher. Tastier, though. Would you like to eat a heart, O Prince?” Wrathion asked, suddenly shifting across the pool so that he and Anduin sat face-to-face. Anduin blinked and wavered a moment, as if torn between leaning in and leaning away. “I’m certain I can easily acquire one for you.”

“That’s-- I mean, you needn’t--” Anduin stammered, but Wrathion was already out of the pool, trailing water behind him as he stalked about in search of some small, wouldn’t-be-missed animal. Fortunately, the hunt lasted only a few minutes before Wrathion came across a lean rabbit and snapped its neck before it could make a sound, holding it by the ears as he brought it back to Anduin.

“Larger hearts have a better taste,” he explained, lowering himself back into the warm water and dragging his claw along the rabbit’s torso to open it, “but I suppose this will suit you better, O Prince. Here.” And he offered Anduin the creature’s tiny heart, still warm and bright red.

Anduin opened and closed his mouth several times, and Wrathion noticed that the human prince had grown pale, almost green. “Can’t we, um. Cook it first?” he asked hesitantly, leaning away from the organ and Wrathion’s bloody hands.

Wrathion rolled his eyes. “And you claim to know so much,” he chided. “The heart is the only muscle in any body that is constantly at work. The meat, therefore, is very tough when cooked, unless you stew it for several hours. And we don’t have several hours.” He extended his hands towards Anduin again. “As I understand it, several mortal cultures consider raw meat to be a delicacy, the Pandaren among them. Don’t be so afraid, O Prince.”

Anduin grimaced but nodded a moment later and lifted the heart between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. “I don’t think I can swallow this in one bite,” he admitted with a nervous laugh. Wrathion could see his Adam’s apple bob as he steeled his nerves, closed his eyes, and bit down on the rabbit’s heart. A few last drops of blood dripped from the corners of Anduin’s mouth, and the human prince gagged. Wrathion realized that Anduin, being human and not a dragon or even a non-sentient carnivore, might not be able to tear into the heart the way another could; but Anduin remained determined, recovering and chewing the first half of the heart before finishing the entire organ and letting out a grunt, though Wrathion could not determine his emotions.

“Good?” the Black Prince asked after a long moment of silence. Anduin groaned and wiped the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand.

“The things I do for you,” he muttered, and added more loudly, “I am never. Doing that again.”

Wrathion chuckled. “More for me, then,” he said, and tore into the rabbit’s carcass with a wide grin, pretending to ignore Anduin’s disgusted shuddering as he did so. Anduin let out another groan and sank down into the water, a few bubbles surfacing as the prince’s only response.


	9. Fashion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anduin wonders about some of Wrathion's bizarre fashion decision. Like what's up with that turban?

"Why do you dress the way you do?"

Wrathion raised an eyebrow at Anduin, looking up from his cup of tea. "I'm not entirely certain I take your meaning, Anduin Wrynn," he said.

Anduin shrugged and adjusted one of his pieces on the game board. "It's not exactly inconspicuous. That turban adds at least three inches to your height, and I can't imagine it's easy to go about your daily business wearing those gauntlets. The claws alone..."

Wrathion fought back a growl. "It's an improvement on your headband at least," he grumbled and dropped his hand to the table, scratching his finger there three times. It had become a signal between the two princes that they would continue a particular conversation later in the evening, away from watchful eyes and listening ears.

Anduin, though self-consciously adjusting his headband, noticed the gesture and nodded almost imperceptibly. "It's your move," the human prince said.

. . .

"So why _do_ you wear that turban?" Anduin repeated when Wrathion sat in his bedroom hours later, the rest of the inn snoring soundly. "Not that I really find it ridiculous, but I've never seen or heard of anyone who dresses the way you do."

Wrathion took a deep breath and launched into a recitation he'd been silently practicing all day. "The clothing I chose is a blend in design of ancient Quel'dorei and human fashion, though it hasn't been seen on Azeroth in several hundred years. The turban, in particular, was popular among nobility and royalty, and for several generations--particularly in regions where Elvish and human fashion bumped up against each other--it was worn by the head of state in lieu of a crown. Turbans also denote purity and holine--"

"Light's sake, I wanted to know why _you_ wore it, not a complete history of traditional royal headgear," Anduin interrupted. "You know, I've never seen you without that thing on? Not even when we went swimming."

Wrathion grumbled again, then took a few steps closer to Anduin, who sat on the edge of his bed with his bad leg propped up on a few pillows. "Do not breathe a word of what you are about to see to _anyone_ ," Wrathion growled. "If you do, I will _know_ , and believe me, Anduin Wrynn, you do _not_ want to be on my bad side. Do you promise to remain silent about this?"

Perhaps his threat had been too intense. Anduin leaned away from the Black Prince, eyebrows raised and mouth hanging open. "I- I promise," he stammered, and Wrathion stepped back again, satisfied.

"What you are about to see may make you uncomfortable. I won't tell anyone if it prompts you to faint," he continued, and Anduin's momentary confusion twisted into more of a scowl.

"I won't faint. I'm not exactly _delicate_ ," he retorted, but Wrathion pretended not to hear. Far slower than was necessary, he removed the ruby pin and decorative band from his turban and slowly unwound the length of white cloth, feeling an odd sense of relief as the heaviness lifted from his head. When he was through, he set the discarded fabric aside and held out his arms, as if he was on display.

"So you see, Anduin Wrynn, why I have no choice but to cover my head with such an ornate garment," he said, hoping he sounded suitably ashamed of himself.

Anduin, however, didn't seem terribly moved by the display. "Is that all?" he asked. "You wear that turban because you don't want anyone to know that you've got horns?"

The horns in question extended from scaly patches just behind Wrathion's temples and curled a good three inches above his scalp. They were black and carefully polished, and as a dragon, Wrathion was quite proud of them. Not many whelps could brag about having such attractive horns, after all. As a prince, however, and a prince trying to relate to mortals... "They make me look powerless," he grumbled, letting his hands fall to his side a moment before removing his gauntlets to reveal clawed and scaly fingertips. "I should be able to maintain a less obvious mortal form."

"Why?" Anduin asked. "I'm sure plenty of dragons have horns in their mortal forms, by choice or not. I think it all looks fine, and anyway, it reminds people that you are who you are. You're not underhanded or manipulative like other black dragons. You're genuine."

Wrathion opened his mouth to argue that he _was_ underhanded and manipulative and not at all genuine but thought better of it. "I suppose that is true," he said and reached a hand up to run along the curve of the horns. "And they are rather impressive. To dragons."

"To dragons," Anduin repeated, smiling. "What purpose do they serve, anyway? Dragons don't exactly butt heads like rams, do they?"

"Sometimes," Wrathion answered, though he had no idea. "They're more to keep us cool and to show our dominance and standing." After a pause, he gave Anduin a feral grin and added, "And to attract mates."

Anduin merely raised an eyebrow at Wrathion. "Do many potential 'mates' come through this inn, then?" he asked. Wrathion shrugged.

"You know, I could ask the same questions of you and your headgear. Does that headband of yours serve the purpose of attracting women to you? Do they frequently parade about in front of you in their finest plumage, each hoping to become the next queen?" he asked.

Anduin shook his head. "If they do, I haven't noticed, and anyway, they'd only be disappointed if they did."

"And why is that, O Prince?"

"I've too much to do to worry about marriage or courtship or any of that," Anduin answered, and Wrathion was surprised at the sudden drop in his chest, as if he'd just fallen from a great height. "I mean, how anyone could think of those things when everything is the way it is--the Alliance and Horde tearing each other apart, the Mogu and the Zandalari, the Sha, the probable threat of the Burning Legion--it's beyond me."

"Perhaps that is why they think of it," Wrathion suggested. "Perhaps those threats you've listed drive people closer together and make the need for companionship more desperate."

"Perhaps," Anduin shrugged. "It's hard to have that mindset, though, when you're a future king and reportedly the one who will lead the world against the Burning Legion."

"And have you no need for companionship, Anduin Wrynn? I'm wounded." Wrathion affected an exaggerated grin, and Anduin rolled his eyes.

"That's not what I meant," the human prince said and sighed, massaging the thigh of his injured leg with glowing fingers. "Friendships and diplomacies are different. They're necessary. But that kind of closeness with someone just wouldn't be fair to anyone involved."

"And why not?"

"I couldn't give someone like that the attention they'd deserve," Anduin answered.  His eyes were still on his leg, as if he was purposely avoiding Wrathion's gaze. "They could lose me at any time, especially if and when the Burning Legion returns, and I couldn't do that to someone. Perhaps if I survive that bit of destiny..."

"Or perhaps you should let those who would desire that kind of closeness with you to make their own decisions about what is and is not fair," Wrathion interrupted, surprised at the sharpness in his own words. Anduin looked up from his leg, startled, and Wrathion held his gaze for a beat before turning away, back towards the window. "I shall leave you to rest now, O Prince, as it seems your leg is causing you pain." Before Anduin could protest, he added, "And in any case, I have a busy day tomorrow. I regret that I will not be able to continue our game until the following day."

Wrathion heard the bed behind him shifting as Anduin struggled to his feet. "What are you doing tomorrow that will have you so busy?" the human prince asked, and Wrathion turned to smile at him over his shoulder.

"I seek the blessings of the August Celestials, for myself and for my champions."

Anduin, who stood waveringly and favoring his injured leg, opened his mouth to remark on this but shook his head as if thinking better of it. "I wish you luck, then, though I don't doubt that you'll earn their blessing." After a beat, he added, "And may the Light bless you in your endeavor."

Wrathion could find no appropriate response to this; it felt superfluous to wish the Light's blessing on Anduin, and more than that, it felt disingenuous. Instead, he merely inclined his head, winding his turban over and around his horns with practiced speed and pinning it in place with a brilliant red gem. "Good night, then, O Prince. I shall see you again in two days' time."

The Black Prince crossed the room in three steps and had slipped away out the window before Anduin could formulate a response.


	10. Reconstruction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrathion is highly displeased with the way Varian Wrynn handled Garrosh Hellscream. Tantrums ensue because two years old.

In all his years--all two of them--Wrathion had never gained much affection for mortals.

To be sure, he cared for individual mortals: Left and Right, of course; Tong, the barkeep (at least when he wasn't being insufferably and foolishly moralistic); a few of his agents; Anduin Wrynn. Despite this, however, he knew full well that while a handful of individual mortals were clever and good, the vast majority were foolish and shortsighted, given to sudden bursts of illogical _goodness_ and _justice_ that didn't take into account the much larger picture.

Such was the case with Varian Wrynn, king of Stormwind and ostensibly the leader of the Alliance (a distinction that Wrathion honestly didn't understand. Why Varian? Why not one of the longer-lived races: Tyrande Whisperwind, perhaps, or even the Prophet Velen? Why not one of them, and _why was the entire Alliance perfectly content with this asinine arrangement_?). At first hearing, Wrathion had learned that Varian Wrynn was passionate and hot-tempered, that he would stop at nothing to protect his people, particularly if doing so involved destroying the Horde. Though the viewpoint was not shared by the king's son, it was one that Wrathion appreciated and one that served as a fair counterbalance to that of the Horde's Warchief, Garrosh Hellscream. The two hated each other virulently, and this, Wrathion thought, would encourage them to finally end the pointless conflict between the Alliance and Horde once and for all.

He _thought_. And then, when Varian Wrynn had his chance to destroy Garrosh Hellscream and dissolve the Horde forever, he was weak. Impossibly, unbelievably weak. Hellscream was escorted away to stand _trial_ , and the Horde still stood, still hating the Alliance and still being hated. Azeroth remained divided, and all because of the king's weakness and sudden moralism.

And Wrathion had been raging about it for three days now.

He called it "raging." Tong the barkeep called it "throwing a tantrum," and after his long speech on balance and peace and whatever else Pandaren obsessed over, he'd remarked that Wrathion was acting very much his age. "When our children are two years old," he commented, half frustrated at the charred state of his tavern and half amused, "they go through a phase where they scream and cry and yell about everything. We call it the 'terrible twos.'"

Wrathion, in response, had thrown a mug at the wall beside the barkeep. "I may be two years old," he'd snarled, "but I am two years old _in dragon years_ , as everyone here seems _incapable_ of _recalling_."

Tong had not addressed him again after that.

Now Wrathion sat on a bench at Mason's Folly, smoke curling from his nostrils and between his lips. Though he did not want to admit it to anyone, he'd exhausted himself in his anger, and he needed a moment to catch his breath and recover. Mason's Folly was as safe a place to do so as any, particularly with Left and Right standing guard, and the view even calmed Wrathion some.

He'd been lost to anger in the last three days, he realized, and he needed to clear his mind. All was not lost; a million paths still remained open to him. He merely needed to _think_ , to have a moment of _silence_ , and--

\--he heard someone's footsteps approaching, one footfall heavier than the other, and accompanied by a scraping of wood against the stone. The approach was a familiar one, and though he didn't turn around to confirm his recognition, his greeting remained as it always had: "Hello, Anduin Wrynn."

The human prince sank down onto the bench beside Wrathion, who suddenly felt a desperate need to hide the smoke that still trailed from his nose and mouth. If Anduin noticed this desperation, however, he didn't mention it. Instead, he simply remarked, "The tavern's a mess."

Wrathion bristled and then squared his shoulders. Somehow, Anduin's presence made him feel something almost like embarrassment (though, of course, he was never _really_ embarrassed) about his rage, but he had no interest in sharing that particular emotion with the human prince, though Anduin likely knew already. He was distressingly perceptive in that way.

It took him a solid minute to formulate a response, and then another minute after that to realize that he hadn't spoken his response out loud, had only thought it. "The Pandaren have a terrible habit of building things out of _wood_ and _bamboo_ , and both of those are highly flammable," he pointed out.

He didn't turn to see Anduin's expression, but he could hear the smile in the prince's voice as he responded. "It's a shame," he said, "because now I've no idea how we'll be able to continue that game of Jihui."

Now Wrathion laughed, entirely without humor, and turned to stare at Anduin. "Are you honestly so concerned with a game of Jihui considering _everything_ that's happened? Considering your father's absolute _ineptitude_ and your own influence on him, I'm amazed you have the gall to even _speak_ to me right now, let alone suggest that we continue playing a game!"

Infuriatingly, Anduin did not rise to the bait and continue to argue; instead, the human prince merely sighed and leaned back on his hands. "Why does it upset you so much?" he asked after a moment's silence, and Wrathion tasted the beginnings of a jet of flame behind his molars.

"You know perfectly well why!" he shrieked, too incensed by Anduin's infernal obtuseness to care much about the smoke that spewed forth from his mouth as he spoke. "So long as the Alliance and the Horde continue to exist, they will be in a state of conflict. So long as they are in a state of conflict, they will be unable to defend this world from the Burning Legion. So long as they are unable to defend this world from the Burning Legion, my work here is that much harder!"

"Because defending Azeroth from the Burning Legion would have been so easy otherwise," Anduin retorted, and Wrathion looked away again in an effort to stop himself from strangling the prince. "You're acting your age, you know."

"First of all," Wrathion began, in a carefully measured voice, "I remind you--once again!--that I am two _in dragon years_. It's a very different aging process."

"You could have fooled me."

" _Second of all_ ," Wrathion continued, ignoring both the jab and the unexpected jet of flame that seared his nose as he snorted at Anduin. "I never said it would be _easy_ , but it would be nice if it could be _easier_. Do you not agree, O Prince?"

Anduin sighed. "Yes, I agree," he relented and shook his head. "But I've never seen you be so obstinately defeatist about things before. You don't sound like yourself. Where's the arrogance? Where's the certainty?"

For a long minute, Wrathion did not answer, refusing to speak lest he admit the truth to Anduin: that he'd never been certain. He'd only ever had the tiniest sliver of hope, but it had been easy to pretend that he had more than that, at least until he spoke with the August Celestials, the Red Crane in particular. Before Chi-Ji, his uncertainty had been laid uncomfortably bare, to the point that the Celestial had blessed him with hope, stating that he needed it "more than any he had ever met."

Along with the blessing had come words of wisdom: that Wrathion should create the future he dreamed of rather than simply hoping it would come to pass. He'd held onto that idea until word reached him about the Horde's fate in Orgrimmar, and suddenly, all of the plans and work he had done to create that future seemed to lie in ruins.

As did the Tavern in the Mists. Wrathion exhaled, this time without smoke or flame. "I suppose it would paint a poor picture of me if I didn't offer Tong funds to rebuild his tavern," he remarked. Beside him, Anduin chuckled.

"Maybe this time, he'll build it differently, with stone and iron instead of bamboo. I mean, since the original design didn't work out, maybe he'll learn from his mistakes and rebuild in a different way," the human prince suggested.

Wrathion stubbornly ignored the second meaning to Anduin's words, his mind still on Chi-Ji. "Do you ever think of the future, O Prince? Beyond whatever happens to Garrosh Hellscream, and beyond the Burning Legion, I mean."

Again, Anduin waited a moment before answering. "You know," he said, "before our last conversation, I hadn't really thought about the future much at all... beyond that point, I mean. It was enough, I thought, to get through whatever disasters I'd have to face at that point, and I could worry about what came next when it was all over."

Wrathion looked up at the human prince once more, surprised to find that Anduin was now looking obstinately at his lap. "And now?" the Black Prince asked.

"And now," Anduin answered, speaking so quietly that Wrathion had to lean in to hear him properly, "I'm finding that looking to that particular future, no matter how far away it is, provides me with the inspiration I need to keep fighting when things seem hopeless."

Perhaps the words meant only what they meant, but they still caused Wrathion's throat to tighten almost imperceptibly. He coughed into his hand before attempting to conceal this strange emotion by remarking, "I can't imagine you fighting at all, Anduin Wrynn. You're far too soft."

Anduin looked up at this, and Wrathion could see the retort fading from his mind as he realized their proximity. The human prince's  cheeks colored, and he looked briefly at Wrathion's lips and wet his own, sitting otherwise immobile. "I'm not _that_ soft," he finally managed, and Wrathion grinned again and leaned back, just as Anduin began to lean forward, the cat-and-mouse game brightening his spirits considerably.

"Incidentally," he said, turning to look once again towards the tavern, "I would like to continue our game sometime, whenever Tong rebuilds."

Out of the corner of his eye, Wrathion saw Anduin straighten quickly and run a hand through his hair, as if the previous moment had been a figment of their imaginations. "We may be able to continue before that point," he said, "at least if you're willing to relocate. Have you heard of the Timeless Isle? I'm heading there now. It's said to be a mystical place, and who knows? It might give you some peace of mind and clarity."

Wrathion turned back to grin at Anduin. "I have heard of it," he said, and leaned in close so that his lips brushed against Anduin's neck when he spoke. "Perhaps I shall meet you there." And that said, the Black Prince stood and, in a puff of smoke, took his dragon form to fly away.

Reflecting upon that moment later, Wrathion realized that perhaps Anduin would have found the situation far more seductive and tantalizing if his dragon form was not still that of a whelp. As it was, however, the human prince doubled over in laughter as Wrathion made his exit with as much dignity as a whelp could muster.


End file.
